


Baked Goods

by markwatneyandensemble



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, a little bit angsty, although coming from a person who seriously can't handle anything remotely based in angst, so my standards are very low, the first and last break-up related fic I will ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markwatneyandensemble/pseuds/markwatneyandensemble
Summary: Baking can be used to cope with depression, and Mulder gives it a try.





	Baked Goods

**Author's Note:**

> I may break this up into chapters later, but we'll see I guess...

_**Pumpkin Bread.** _

She left in the late fall. Said something about a new job in the city, and she didn’t want to commute. And after years of being cooped up in the same house, surely they both could use a little space. But she’ll be back soon. She promised to be back soon. Just take care of yourself.

 

For her first visit back he made pumpkin bread, not having the energy to drive all the way into town. There was a box mix of questionable age in the back of the cupboard.

For years it was the best part of fall for them, just slathering butter on a slice of Maggie’s bread and curling up on the sofa together watching Halloween movies. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t partially to entice her back into their home. Okay. Mostly to entice her.   
  
In all honesty, he probably put far too much pressure on it turning out absolutely perfect for her visit. Which was how he ended up on the floor of the kitchen, covered in pumpkin puree and flour, tears rolling down his cheeks out of defeat and exhaustion as he stuck fork after fork into his creation, only to find the middle still mushy and a border of charcoal quickly working its way towards the center with each five minute stint in the oven.

She found him with bloodshot eyes chipping burnt bread off the pan.

Seeing her, for the first time, standing in the doorway, he felt conflicted. On one hand, he hated the fact that she’d left, that she’d been just another perfect thing in his life that vanished within a matter of time. On the other, he couldn’t believe she’d stuck it out so long. And he couldn’t believe that she was back. Even if it weren’t for very long.

In her arms was not the duffel bag or moving box he was hoping to see, but a bag from a bakery in town. She set it softly on the counter as she advanced towards him and reached out to pull him into her arms. Whether it was out of exhaustion from cooking or the numb misery that followed him constantly, he couldn’t help but sob loudly into her shoulder in a way parallel to the night following his mother’s death all those years ago. And she held him tightly, wordlessly, for an eternity.

When they finally broke apart, she stepped towards the sink behind him, and filled the pan with warm, soapy water and let it sit.

“I’m sorry, I burned it, Scully,” he mumbled to his feet, not knowing if she could hear him.

“Don’t worry about it, Mulder.” He felt her hand squeeze his shoulder, reassuringly. “I actually brought my own.” She began rifling through the bakery bag. “We think alike.” She glanced up and caught the first smile he gave in months.

They laid together on the couch until long after the sky outside darkened. Mulder ate most of the loaf of bread she brought, covering every piece in copious amounts of butter. When he caught her staring as he did so, he asked, “what?”

She shook her head, smiling reassuringly. “Nothing. I was going to say some health-related thing about butter and carbs… but it’s just good to see you eating.”

He gave her a small smile, hopefully conveying that he *was* getting better. But he didn’t say anything. He could tell she knew.

“I probably should… ” her voice drifted off, not completing the sentence he dreaded hearing all night.

“Okay.” There was a tightness in his chest.

“Can I come back next weekend?”  
  
“It’s your house.” That was sharper than he’d hoped.

Her voice was soft when she responded. “Well, I’ll be back next weekend.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I left another loaf of the pumpkin bread in the fridge. I know you like it.”

And with that she was gone.

 

 

He began seeing a therapist a little over a month later. Scully had visited every, or every other weekend, and despite how desperately he wanted her to come back for good, there was an unspoken agreement about how that was going to happen. So he turned to the yellow pages and called the first counselor he saw.

It wasn’t anything fancy, just a small town therapist whose office was located in the back room of an old, multi-functional building that was most definitely haunted. Through the walls he could hear kids at a birthday screaming. If Scully had been there, he’d’ve joked they were ghosts.

He didn’t talk much the first session, just explained the abbreviated, textbook description of what he was feeling. Sensing his unwillingness to open up, the therapist went over some helpful coping mechanisms he could try.

Yoga. Meditation.  _Somehow he didn’t think it would help to be alone with his thoughts right then._

Reach out to a friend. _The only one he had left a month ago._

Doing something you love.  _Yeah, Skinner would really be glad to have him back._

Engage in a project of some kind: art, baking, music, exercise.

At first, he was apprehensive about the last suggestion, explaining in brief how baking had exhausted him to the point of breaking with the pumpkin bread and any of the dishes he’d tried to make since. How he had no artistic talent past doodling mustaches on pictures of himself. How exercise was so difficult when so much of the time he spent in pain. And how every song he listened to had some connection to Scully, and while that normally would be a good thing, he’s trying to get better on his own.

 _Try it again_ , they said.  _The baking. Just do something simple, like a loaf of bread, where you could take breaks while it rises._

As he left the building, while a local high school band began to practice on the upper floor, he decided to go to the grocery store.

 

 _ **Pizza**_.

When she arrived Saturday night, she found the kitchen cleaner than she’d ever seen it and a cloth-covered bowl sitting alone on the counter.

“Science experiment, Mulder?” she called through the house. “Is it an alien mutation that needs its darkness?”

As he entered the room, she peeked into the bowl. “Dough?”

“Yeah… just something that I’m trying. Baking, that is. Bread’s easy since it kind of does it’s thing.”  
  
Her face softened. “That’s really great, Mulder.”

“Well… We’ll see if it is in… about three minutes.” He checked his watch.

“So, is this dinner tonight? I got your voicemail saying to skip the takeout.”

“Yeah, I was thinking we could make pizza. If you wanted to…” He shifted on his feet.

“I’d love to.”

They shared a smile.

“I see you cleaned the kitchen.”

Mulder gave her a proud smile. “Yeah.”  
  
“Finally, scraped that weird blob off the wall.”

“It took me hours,” Mulder bragged. “There were points where I just thought I’d give up. Cohabitate with the probably alien goop in the corner. But then I thought: ‘No. It’s time.’”

Scully gave a small laugh. “I’m glad you’re doing a little better.”

For a brief moment, Mulder considered asking when she’d be back. The blob-less wall was proof he was getting better. The only piece missing was her.

But before he got a chance, the timer on his watch beeped.

“Pizza time?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He knelt down to find baking sheets in the drawer below the oven, and wondered if, while he was still on his hands and knees, he ought to beg her to come back.

But as they began rolling out the dough, and topping it, he thought better of it. He didn’t want to force anything. He didn’t want to make it awkward tonight, and he’d choose Scully’s giggle as he stole pepperoni slices off her pizza over anything in the world.

She fell asleep leaning against him that night. Ghostbusters played in the background, but he didn’t catch a glimpse. Sure, they weren’t cuddling the way he’d hoped for, but having her back, even for a moment, drooling on his last clean hoodie was the best he could have hoped for.

She woke up just as the end credits began to roll, and as she sat up blinking, he could see that for a moment she’d forgotten she had left at all. When it finally hit her, she silently stood up, and took both their empty plates to the kitchen. He could hear the water running and dishes clinking as they were set in the dishwasher.

When she returned, she had already put on her coat.

“I should probably…” she gestured to the door, trying, again, to not actually say the word ‘leave’.

Mulder nodded, not quite making eye contact, and stood to walk her out.

She took one last look around the kitchen before leaving. She turned to him.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah?” For a moment his throat tightened and he hoped she was going to say something about even the vaguest possibility of coming home.

“I know you just repainted the wall. That blob was never coming off.” She smiled in the way she always did when she teased him.

“Oh. I mean, no. How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” he joked lightly as he followed her out the door.

They stood on the porch awkwardly, Mulder barefoot, numb to the cold November night.

He didn’t even see it coming, but before he knew it, Scully was wrapped in his arms tightly, standing on her toes, face pressed into the crook of his neck. Their embrace tightened, and he could feel her inhaling deeply into his neck. She still used the same shampoo. It was comforting.

When they finally broke away, there was a sadness and a regret in both of their faces. He stood on the porch, warmed only by the lasting feeling of that hug, until he couldn’t see her headlights any longer.

 

 

 _ **Cheesecake**_.

She hadn’t come by in a couple weeks. He knew she was busy with work. But that didn’t change the fact that he wanted to see her.

For the longest time he refused to call her on any phone other than her cell. To call an apartment would admit this situation had some permanence and he wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. When he finally got up the guts to call the landline number she’d given him, a man answered and he hung up immediately.

After bawling in the fetal position, feeling like a vital organ had been ripped from his abdomen, he reread the number and saw she’d written the two like a seven, without the base in her hurried scrawl. She was so sweet on the phone, so delicate with him. She probably could hear the pain he had been in.

She agreed to a date, and joked lightly if it meant an alien autopsy. Throughout the phone call, he was caught in the terror the wrong number had invoked, but her whispered assurance of love as she hung up the phone made it quickly dissipate.

She agreed to bring take out, and he agreed to dessert. He was getting quite good at breads and easy pastries and he thought he ought to take it up a notch. So, he selected a cheesecake. She liked those. He remembered an absurdly expensive slice she had in LA, one that she joked she liked more than some of the things he did to her.

Miraculously, he did everything right according to the recipe. He spent a few therapeutic minutes imagining that smoking bastard’s face when crushing graham crackers. While it was in the oven, he went upstairs to their untouched bedroom to peel off his several-day-old pajamas and replace with something comfortable but cleaner. He settled on that soft sweater, currently ranking number one as one of the best clothing purchases of his life. She always rested her head on his shoulder more when he wore it. For years he’d hoped the softness of the sweater was simply an excuse to do so.

So absorbed in thought, he didn’t hear the timer go off. When he smelled smoke while half-dressed in that sweater, he raced downstairs to grab the forgotten cheesecake.

He stood over the wreckage for a few minutes, staring down at his burnt masterpiece. When he finally turned around she was standing in the door, holding a bag of Thai food. She didn’t even try to hide that she was ogling his boxer-clad ass so openly. She flashed him a small, goofy smile.

“I may have ruined another treat for us,” he mumbled quietly.

She walked towards him and glanced around him to see the cheesecake.

“I dunno, as a lifelong bad cook, I think this one is salvageable.” She squeezed his hand, and ran her hand over the arm of his sweater before turning and heading into the living room to set up dinner. In a perfect world he would have wanted a more romantic welcome for her. Well, in a perfect world she’d always be here. But he understood. So, he climbed the stairs to get a pair of clean sweatpants.

The night wore on, and they shared a small circular piece of cheesecake Scully used her autopsy skills to rescue. Their forks battled like swords, but he let her have the last big piece. That grin she gave him as she licked the tines of her fork clean was worth every piece of smoke-flavored cheesecake in the world.

He fell asleep without realizing it. He didn’t remember ever doing so, everything was just so warm and peaceful that at some point it had lulled his exhausted body to sleep. Cheesecake making took it out of him. She was gone by the morning, and it may have been his imagination, but there was a phantom imprint of her lips on his cheek.

 

 

_**Christmas Cookies.** _

Maggie had figured out gmail by Christmas, and he begged her to send him pictures of her famous Christmas cookie recipes. They spent one painstaking Saturday on the phone, neither having a full understanding about importing and exporting and what the hell anything meant. Eventually, Mulder relented and promised Maggie he’d come by another time to take pictures of the recipes himself. There was a numbness with his defeat that made him curl up on the couch.

According to the wall clock, it was nine pm before he woke up, and when he did, a red haired angel was standing over him with a bunch of yellowing papers in one hand, shaking his shoulder gently with the other.

“I hear you were harassing my mother for these?” she smirked at him as he blinked and stared at her trying to comprehend the situation.

“The recipes,” she clarified. She sat down on the edge of the sofa and stared down at him lovingly. She reached over and ran her hand through his hair. They both knew that now wasn’t a great time. That he was worn out. That this would be one of the harder nights.

“Thanks, Scully. I was going to get them tomorrow… thank you.” There was a look in his eyes that seemed apologetic and full of grief.

It broke her heart and all she could do was smile down at him gently. “Well, I’ve been meaning to make them, too. Do you mind if I get them started? Maybe you’d feel up to frosting them with me?” He attempted a smile.

Time passed, and he burrowed deep into the couch cushions. An indescribable pain and numbness kept him from joining her in the kitchen. So, he just laid there, listening to her work.

She came out to the living room as the cookies baked and offered him a cup of coffee. They drank the hot liquid slowly, watching a hideous Frosty sequel on TV.

He found the energy, probably from the caffeine, to join Scully in the kitchen when the timer dinged. He sat down on a chair, watching as Scully scooped the cookies off the baking sheets and placed them on the wire racks he’d bought weeks before on a whim.

She worked quietly, smiling back at him every few seconds. He watched her mix together icing and dip her fingers in the bowl over and over because she couldn’t resist. She came to him with a beater in her outstretched hand, and one in the other, and they licked the sugary goop off both in silence. He somehow found the energy to stand and join her by the countertop to slather the cookies in icing.

They left the kitchen in more disarray than it had been in months. A warmth spread in his chest and all he could think was “good.” It had been far too immaculate before.

Later, after all the bowls were loaded into the sink to “soak”, and after he’d gone to take a warm shower, after he thought she’d already left, something drew him upstairs to their bedroom. There, he found her putting clean, flannel sheets on a long-forgotten bed, dressed in a pair of sweats from a box she’d left by mistake.

She gave him a smile as he entered the room. “It’s too late to drive back to the city. Mind if I stay here tonight?”

A hopeful little voice in the back of Mulder’s mind piped up and reminded him of the fact that she’d driven back far later than this. Voiced an unspoken hope that she might actually *want* to be here, with him.

“You don’t even have to ask. This is your home, too.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but smiled in agreement down at the sheets she was stretching over the mattress.

Once the bed was made to her satisfaction, she laid on her side and patted the mattress next to her. He started to say something about how it was fine. How he didn’t mind sleeping on the couch, but his aging back won the argument, and he settled himself beneath the covers.

They fell asleep apart that night, the way platonic friends might- each keeping to their own side. However, just before he drifted to sleep he felt her cold hand wander under the covers to grasp his, and they fell asleep with their fingers intertwined.

He woke up three times that night. Once from a nightmare so bad it woke her up as well. The second to find her wrapped around him tightly, her hand frozen in place after falling asleep raking her fingers calmingly through his hair. Her body was stretched around his, spooning him the best she could. Her face was pressed tightly in the crook of his neck. He would have wanted to stay in that moment forever, but alas, it was comfortable and warm, and he drifted to sleep again.

He woke the third time to find the bed empty, and it left him wondering for a moment if she had even been there at all. He fumbled for the light on the nightstand and found a note scrawled in her handwriting, pinned to the table by his half-full orange pill bottle.

  
She got called into work early. She’d be back to visit sometime soon, and he better make a dent in those cookies because she might eat them all upon her return. But none of that mattered compared to the “Love, S,” she had put on the bottom. He pondered it throughout the rest of the day. Did she write it out of habit, or out of sincerity.

He didn’t know for sure until he went to strip the bed once again. He wouldn’t be using it unless she was there. But when he went to put the sheets away in the dresser, he noticed the closet door open a crack and inside was that box she’d forgotten, and the sweats she’d worn the night before.

She’d gone to the trouble to not bring it back with her, and something told him it wasn’t out of forgetfulness.

 

_**Birthday Cake.** _

For months this went on. She would drive home whenever she could, and he’d have something in the oven waiting for her as she came through the door, stomping the snow off her boots. She never did sleep over again. He made them paninis with homemade bread, and gave her a bag of croutons for the salads she made during the week.

His greatest cooking marvel was homemade marshmallows that they drank with hot chocolate as they watched snow fall on their property.

Every couple visits, Scully would come bearing new recipes sent from Maggie. One set contained a note of how Maggie had used some of them to cope while Bill Sr. was away. He could tell there was a hidden meaning to the message and he was grateful that Maggie didn’t hate him.   
  
  


Scully was stolen away by Maggie on her birthday. He’d been desperately hoping she might show up, that he could could celebrate the anniversary of her existence and show her how much she meant to him.

But he also couldn’t take her away from  her mother, and so he made his peace with it. He spent all day baking and looking through photo albums that she’d left in a back closet.   
  
When he was finished with his creation, he wrapped it securely in a box and buckled it in place in the passenger seat of his car.   
  
He drove the forty minutes into the city and finished off the hour trying to find a park.

He hadn’t realized the significance of location she’d chosen until he was standing on the building’s stoop, trying to check the car was locked when he noticed a familiar building within spitting distance. The same one he’d spent almost a decade in.

His eyes began to mist as he let himself into the building, glancing constantly over his shoulder to look at that old building, with the spare key she’d given him. Scully had chosen this place for a reason other than location and rent price. It reminded her of him, and he grinned like a lunatic as he rode the elevator up to her floor.

Inside her apartment, he found what he was least expecting. Boxes covered the floor and the few pieces of furniture that were there. On some level, he knew it was because she was busy and hadn’t had the time to really settle in. He mostly just hoped it was because she wouldn’t be there long.

He left the box on the counter, with a note saying, “Happy Birthday, I’ll see you soon. M,” along with the picture he carefully selected.  Them. The first birthday they celebrated together after she’d gone into remission. The bakery had mixed up their order with some little kid’s. They got a spaceship cake with the words, “Happy 3rd Birthday, Wally”, and the kid probably got her carrot cake with purple frosting.

Inside was a replica of that spaceship cake that he made the best he could.

He could see her car pull into it’s spot just as he was pulling away. He missed her by just a minute. For a moment, he considered circling the block and going up to say hi before she left for her mother’s.

But instead he drove home, and there was a voicemail waiting on his machine when he got there.

 

“I can’t believe you stole another kid’s cake,” she began, and there was a light giggle. “This is amazing, Mulder. Thank you. I called Mom and asked if I could bring it and she said she already had one for me, so I guess we’ll eat this this weekend. She also said overloading her grown children with sweets is her territory. Before she knows it, you’ll be sending tins of cookies to Bill too. She was kidding by the way, I feel like I need to mention that. Please don’t stop baking, I need my crouton supply. Anyway… I just wanted to call and say thank you, and I’ll try to call back later when I’m home…. Love you.”

 

He listened to the message on repeat until the old answering machine started making funny sounds and he got scared it would break.

He took a shower and curled up on the couch, the phone within arms reach. He watched TV on the lowest volume so he didn’t miss her call.

“Be honest, Mulder,” was how she began. “Did you cave and have a bakery make this?”

He felt a surge of pride. “Never, Scully. I’m getting better, right?”

They both knew there was a double meaning. “Yeah, you are. I’m really proud of you.”

 

 

_**Store-bought Scones.** _

He called twice one night, curled up in their bed for the first time in months, beneath the covers, in the darkness, wrapped every fiber of cloth that even remotely smelled like her.

She answered the second time, but in the background there was loud chatter and he immediately hung up. For hours he laid there, face buried in her forgotten clothes, and the sheets that he convinced himself hadn’t lost their Scully-residue since December. He missed her and all he needed in the universe was to hear her voice, but he didn’t deserve it.

He fell asleep crying and was only awoken by footsteps and a blinding light from the hallway. Mulder blinked hard for a second, and when he was able to open his eyes fully, he saw her kneeling next to the bed.

“Scully?” he mumbled, trying to sit up.

“Hey,” she said quietly, and rose to sit on the bed. “Can I turn on a light?”

He shook his head, quietly. The hallway light was enough. “What are you doing here?”

“I tried calling you back,” he glanced at the phone and it’s blinking red light. “But I figured you fell asleep or something. And I just wanted to check on you.” She reached over and held his jaw, running her fingers over the beard that was growing every day he couldn’t be bothered to shave.

“Where were you? I heard voices.”

“A nurse, Janice, had her birthday this week and some people at work wanted to throw her a surprise party. Everyone else had kids or big dogs or renovations and so we did it at my place.”  
  
He sank back into his mound of pillows and clothes, blinking hard. Without him, she might have all those things too.   
  
“Mulder.” Her fingers were below his chin now, trying to tilt his face up so he would meet her eyes. When he forced his face deeper into the pillow, he felt her hand run through his hair softly. “Mulder, why did you call? Is everything okay.” Her voice was heavy with concern.

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he mumbled.

“Mulder-”  
  
“I’m sorry I took you away from your party, Scully. You should go back,” he whispered, miserably.

“Mulder, it ended. And you didn’t answer my calls and I was worried. We have all night, so can you please tell me what’s going on?” she spoke as gently as she could.

He was quiet for a moment, staring into the pillow. “Why did you leave, Scully?”  

He tried so desperately just to ask her the question, to not make it sound so bitter, but he couldn’t help it.

“We both needed the space,” she said quietly, staring at her hands in her lap.

He sat upright. “I didn’t need space,” he said through gritted teeth.  
  
“I did.” She replied as aggressively as he’d spoken, but both their faces immediately softened. They sat in silence.

Finally, Scully met his eyes, and tentatively climbed a little closer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, melding them together. He paused for a moment, and then pulled her impossibly closer.

“What did I do wrong, Scully?” he asked quietly in her ear.

“Nothing, Mulder,” she said, before saying the five words he’d been desperately wanting to hear for months. “I _want_  to come home.”

But they both knew there was a ‘but’ coming after, and she pulled back a few inches to look at his face. “I want to come home, I really do. But I can’t support both of us.”

She looked down, and spoke in a moment with her voice thin and quiet. “Mulder, I want to help you, but I can’t do it all. This thing that you’re going through, it’s hell. And I’m so sorry, after everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve been through, you don’t deserve it. But I can’t do it all, I have my own grief to deal with. So, I’m always going to be there for you, but you do need space to figure this thing out.”

Tears ran down his face. “I’m trying, Scully. I really am.” And she immediately met his eyes and her hands found his jaw again.  
  
“Oh, I know you are. This is just a blip, and it’s a blip caused by a lot of awful stuff. And we’ll find our way through it. It’ll just take a little bit longer.”

He nodded weakly, and she pulled him tight to her again, just as he was leaning back on the bed and brought her down with him.

They laid in a tangled mess, with her on top of the covers and him under, with every limb they had wrapped around each other.

His arms were on fire come the morning, but it didn’t matter. When he awoke, no matter how numb and lost he felt, she was lying there curled next to him for the first time in months. The covers that had previously separated them were balled up at the end of the bed, and they lay warmed only by each other on that cold March morning. Carefully, he pulled her closer and tilted his head forward to press a kiss to the top of her head.

For the next hour, as she slept peacefully in his arms, he processed what she had said. How clear she had made it that there was still hope for them. And that it was going to be better if they took their time, and relished in the space in order to find their footing again.

And he hated it. But she was the smartest person he knew. She knew him far better than anyone had ever attempted.

If she said this was the way to get her to come home, and this was the way to heal from all they’d been through together, then so be it.

As idyllic as it was to lie there, watching her sleep so peacefully, he began to get restless, and carefully extracted himself from the bed and tucked the sheets around her.

And he got ready quickly, just whatever pair of pants was within reach. He brushed his teeth as quietly as he could, took his dose of that small green and white capsule, and eased the squeaky bedroom door shut.

He drove quickly into town, hoping she wouldn’t be gone when he got back, and bought them some breakfast.

Mulder made it just in time, and they sat together in the living room, chasing the rock hard scones down with cold coffee.

“Your’s are better,” she admitted with a careful smile.

“Thanks,” he smiled back, feeling exponentially better than he had been the night before. And he wanted to show her that.  

She left within the hour, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she walked out the door. The one glimmer of hope that remained as he watched her make her way down the driveway was that she’d left her plate and cup on the coffee table, something Dana Scully would never do unless she no longer felt she was just a guest.

 

 

_**Discounted Chocolate.** _

She was by the Monday following Easter. She came bearing leftover chocolate bunnies and eggs that her nieces and nephews somehow didn’t bother eating. The trees had started blooming late this year, and they sat on the front porch in their light blue chairs eating chocolate and watching the world come to life around them.

“I never understood why it was an Easter BUNNY,” he confessed.

“What do you mean?”  
  
“Like I get the eggs,” he pulled one from its foil and stuck it in his mouth. He continued while chewing the chocolate openly. “It represents birth and adorable fuzzy creatures, but why isn’t it an Easter Chicken. Or Easter Duck. But why a bunny leaving eggs?”

He glanced over in time to see her giving him the same grin that was plastered on her face for seven years. The grin that said ‘my partner’s an idiot, but I love him.’ Or at least he hoped it did.

“I dunno, Mulder. Maybe it’s an X-File.”

They stared at their vast lawn together, and images in his mind began to play. Of a familiar-looking boy running around in search of eggs, his face covered in chocolate. Scully chasing him as he giggled. Him growing up as fast as the trees and flowers seemed to bloom in the spring. Of sitting on the porch with Scully, hands linked together as they watched him make the trek up their long driveway from the bus stop.

Scully broke his quickly darkening spiral of thought by reaching out and slipping her fingers through his.

“You know, Mulder. The cherry trees in the city bloomed late this year.”

Mulder didn’t know how to respond so he nodded and smiled.

“Maybe one morning next week we could meet somewhere and take a walk by them as the sun rises. Before I have to go to work.” His smile grew larger and he squeezed her hand.

“I’d love that.”

“How about Wednesday? At like six, by the spot we used to meet when Krycek was your partner and I wasn’t allowed on the X-Files.”

Mulder cringed at the name of that man, but nodded. “I’d just have to be back by ten.”  
  
“Cute date?” she asked jokingly, with the thinnest layer of curiosity.

He chuckled and took a bunny’s ears off. “I already have one.”

He swore in his peripheral vision he saw her blush. “Therapy,” he clarified. He glanced over at Scully and was met with an encouraging smile.

“I’ll make sure I have you back by ten,” she agreed.

 

 

_**Lumpy Batter and Blue Frosting.** _

She turned around three times on the way out to their house, and spent the rest of the drive planning how to get back to the city sooner.

It was a Wednesday and she never really considered going. It wasn’t a day they annually celebrated. But given everything that happened between them given the main reason she figured he was in such a dark place the last few months, it felt wrong to leave him alone. And deep down, she didn’t want to be alone either. And he was the only one in the world who would understand.

It was far too cool to be May when she stepped out of the car and made her way quickly onto the porch, almost like the sky was grieving as well. She didn’t call for him when she entered the house, finding herself in a kitchen sloppily covered in used bowls and pans. For a brief moment she wondered if he even knew what day it was, but she caught a glimpse of the remnants of the project he’d been working on.

She made her way through the house, looking for him and not wanting to call out. She found Mulder in the cluttered spare bedroom, looking through an old photo album while a lumpy blue cake sat on a table.

He’d swaddled himself in a blanket and was curled in an old, oversized armchair they’d never found a place for. Their eyes met as she entered the room, and neither spoke, both feeling weighed down by the emptiness of the room.

She approached the chair quietly, looking down at the album she wasn’t surprised to see. She glanced at his face and watched fat tears run down his cheeks. Slowly, she lowered herself next to him in the chair and curled around his blanket-wrapped body, pressing her ear to his chest just to hear his heartbeat. He sat up for a second, and she thought he was going to leave, but he unwrapped himself enough to throw half the blanket over her as well. And he sank back into the chair and cuddled closer to her.

Together, they flipped through the album, ignoring the first page. It wasn’t the time to grieve the sole picture that lay on it, of a fair-haired toddler smiling without a care in the world.

Tears ran down each of their faces as they flipped through page after page, looking at the pictures.

A page of a blurry black-and-white sonogram, the DNA results that ended the bullpen bet and made Skinner a rich man. An empty place in the middle where a birth certificate used to be.  

A page with his inky footprint. A series of pictures Mulder never knew existed of the short time they spent together. Mulder had held him as much as he possibly could. He’d fallen asleep in Mulder’s arms and cooed sweetly until Mulder had put him down. Long after he was out like a light, Mulder stood over his crib and read through the baby shower books, trying to soak up every moment he could. The pictures on that page were of every moment, taken quietly through the crack in a door.

Continuing through the album, they saw page after page of some of the happiest memories of their lives. Emails from Mulder Scully had printed out. Pictures of him being held by Maggie, by Monica, and so many with his mother. There was one taken by Maggie of Scully having fell asleep holding him on their bed. The baby’s arm was outstretched pointing and smiling at a framed photo of Mulder on the bedside table. Him wearing a ridiculous blue hat. Another of him wearing the UFO onesie Mulder had sent from Roswell.

They made it to the end of the photo album and it lay closed, resting on their tangled legs as they silently laid together.

Quietly, Scully spoke for the first time, and said the thing she’d wanted to for a very long time. “I’m sorry I gave him up.”

He pulled her tighter and pressed a long kiss to the top of her head. She could almost feel tears dripping from his cheeks. “Scully… you were his mother. You did your job, and you kept him safe.”  
  
She nodded against his chest, throat tightening too much to respond, so he continued.

“I don’t blame you for doing it.”

She pressed her face deep into his chest and he felt tears begin to soak through his shirt. He brought his arms around her and pulled her as tight as he could. Minutes passed, and when she finally was able to speak.

“I kind of thought it was part of the reason for…”

“For this depression?” he finished.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, keeping her face pressed into his chest. She felt him shift and lean forward, and kiss the top of her head.

“Scully… I’m not going to lie… it was part of it.” She looked up at him. “I mean, he’d be fifteen today. As time went on I kept thinking of all the things we could have done together. Like teaching him how to hit a baseball… then we’d argue because he’s not into baseball, and so we get ice cream and go home and watch Star Trek. Or arguing about the first person he brings home and introduces to us, because it’s a small town and we know this kid and we know they’re a bad influence on our son. Or debating about aliens… I’ll be honest, a lot of arguing. And then I’d get to argue with you about who he gets that from.” She leaned her face into his shoulder and gave a weak, muffled laugh.

“But Scully, you can’t ever think I blame you for it. Or that you being here reminded me of what we didn’t have. Or think that you in any way make it worse. Our lives were dangerous. They still are. And when I talked to my therapist about this, I realized how much of a hell those first few years of his life would have been. We wouldn’t have been able to take him to a park, or have playdates, or a big first birthday party that we tried to make so perfect but something goes wrong and it doesn’t even matter because he was a baby and genuinely doesn’t care about any of it. We’d constantly worry about people trying to take him from us, and a kid shouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing.” She curled tighter to him.

“And so, Scully, I don’t blame you for any of it.” His own tears began to fall. “I’m just sorry we never got any of that. I’m sorry that we live lives where we’re constantly screwed over by that cigarette smoking devil. And I’m sorry we didn’t get any of those moments, good or bad. And I’m sorry that a random assignment you got in 1993 forced you to give up all of it.”

Their eyes met, and in his she saw the same emotion that she’d felt for years. She spoke quietly. “Mulder… I don’t blame you either.”

“But it was my crusade.”

“And it became mine, too. I don’t want you to feel guilty about it.”   
  
They stared at each other silently, both knowing that no matter what was said, for the rest of their lives they’d both still feel guilty.

He held her as close as possible for a long time, running his fingers through her long hair and his hand lightly over her back. After their tears had dried up, and they’d both grieved as much as they could take for one day, they began to pick at the cake, moving pieces around more than they ever took a bite.

They fell asleep wrapped around each other, on the couch downstairs. She woke up first the next morning, and laid against him for hours, staring at his sleeping face. For all the progress they’d made, for how easy it would have been to just plant her feet right then and there and declare that she was back for good, she knew there was still healing that needed to be done. That they both still needed a little time to process everything, especially from the night before. She slowly untangled herself from him, hoping desperately to not wake him up and make it harder. Once free, she draped a blanket over his frame, pressing her lips deep into his forehead. She hesitated an inch from his face for just a moment, and then pressed a second, lighter, kiss on his lips.

He fought every urge to open his eyes, to ask her why she’d done that, and maybe to kiss her again. But he knew this wasn’t the time, and so he laid there silently, pretending to be asleep even though he could practically see her standing conflicted over him. And he felt her presence disappear from the room.

 

 

**_Muffins_.**

It was a cold, drizzly day in late June when she called and said she would be over in the evening. There was something in her voice that gave him hope unlike any he’d felt in months. In the past weeks, she’d come over more often than her weekly visitation. Some nights she even stayed over, claiming in the morning it was purely out of exhaustion and convenience. But the smile and foot nudge she always gave him said otherwise.

He left home- their home- in the early afternoon, setting out for that tiny, small town supermarket. He spent what felt like hours, maybe even was, pacing up and down the baking aisle in search of the perfect recipe. An older woman asked if he needed help. All he could think to reply was:

“I don’t know, what’s the best baked good to woo the love of your life enough to move back in and tolerate your sorry ass.”

But of course that wouldn’t be appropriate, and so he politely shook his head and stared back at the endless array of supplies.

As he drove home with his laziest project yet- a Betty Crocker, three ingredient muffin mix that would take less than 30 minutes to make- he hoped she would be okay with it. Upon arriving at their property, he found the large iron gate flung open and for a moment he was confused. Had he really been that spacy earlier that he forgot to close it? But in the distance he could see a familiar car parked in his spot and suddenly his world felt a little warmer.

He sealed them both into their property and continued to drive down their driveway. For a split second he considered parking behind her car. Just one more hurdle that could convince her to stay. But he thought better of it, and parked right next to it.

He turned off his engine and went inside, pausing briefly on the porch to watch her through the kitchen window, working on an unseen project, seemingly as naturally as if she never left. He got closer and saw she was engulfed in his bathrobe. Mulder entered the house grinning as best he could and she threw him a warm smile over her shoulder. He looked over her shoulder at her project and then leaned against the counter so he could see more of her face.

“You weren’t home, and I was starving,” she said, gesturing to the bowl before she even looked at him.

“Muffins?” She nodded, her lips still pressed together in focus. “I guess we do think alike.” He waved his own muffin mix in front of her face.

“A mix, Mulder?” He shrugged. “Have you been cheating me out of homemade goods this entire time?” She asked, tossing him occasional glances.

“Absolutely not. Scully, I swear, it was a one time thing!” He smiled.

“Well, I don’t know if I made these right, but I did use an actual recipe, so…” She said, continuing their familiar, wonderful banter.

“I do have a wealth of knowledge in the subject, so if you need any help with the baking, lemme know.”

Her arm snaked out and grabbed his tightly. “I’m all ears, chef. How do I make this better?”

He smirked, and stared at her, standing with his bathrobe wrapped tightly around her, pooling at her ankles. And he took a chance.   
  
He stepped behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. “So, since we’re the bakers, we get to take certain liberties with the batter,” he murmured in her ear. “For instance, one kind of bakers would we be if we didn’t taste test every individual muffin before we put it in the pan, right?”  
  
“Mulder,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him.

“So, what we’re going to do is lick, before pan. So, just lick the spoon, to make sure everything tastes good,” he brought the large spoon to his lips and tasted it. She obviously mismeasured the baking powder because it’s distinct flavor was the only thing he could taste. He held back a shiver, and put the spoon back in the bowl. He continued the best he could. “And then you take a big spoonful and put it in the little cup. Lick before pan.”  
  
“Mulder, have you seriously been eating batter as you baked,” she gave him a horrified look over her shoulder.

“It’s a step up from spitting in the bowl.” She’d turned her head back but he swore he could see her rolling her eyes. “Anyway, if you’re not immune to my saliva by now-”  
  
“Mulder-” she gave a little laugh, and pushed him away.   
  
“Fine, Scully. Do it the boring way.”

“Go warm up, Mulder, your hands are freezing. Besides, you’re dripping cold rain water all over me. And that’s what I took a shower to warm up from.”

“Did you take all the hot water?” She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Maybe… It should have replenished by now.” He didn’t think he could be happier in that moment than he was, but he realized how wrong he’d been.

He began towards the shower, but was stopped in his tracks in the living room. Something, although minor, was off. There was a new blanket folded carefully over the arm of the sofa, and some of her favorite movies stacked by the TV. Her go-to mug was back, sitting on the coffee table like normal. He was about to go back into the kitchen, hug her as tight as he could, ask her if she was beginning to come home, when a shriek brought him running.

“MULDER!” she looked at him horrified, a batter dripping off the spoon she held in midair.

“What? Everything okay?”  
  
“NO! This tastes like an alien’s ass.” She thrust the spoon at him and batter flew around the room. “How did you eat this?”

“I mean… it’s not so bad.”

“It is.” She said definitively, bringing the bowl to the compost bin and dumping it’s contents.

“Scully, I’d eat your alien butt muffins any day of the week,” he vowed, as he leaned over and dropped a kiss on her cheek.

Scully rolled her eyes, and playfully shoved his arm. “Go. Take a shower. I’ll make your mix, and you’ll need to decide between ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ and ‘Steel Magnolias’. I brought them with me, so that you can’t keep talking me into ‘Spaceballs’ and ‘Skycaptain and the World of Tomorrow’ just because none of my movies are here.”

He grinned, and nodded in concession. He glanced back at her, as he was about to leave the room, reading over the instructions on the box carefully. They’d be back to normal soon. Maybe even better than normal. But whatever it was, they were almost there. 

 


End file.
